


For This Music is My Language

by Jaywings



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, hector suddenly has a family again and doesn't know what to do, miguel is just trying to help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaywings/pseuds/Jaywings
Summary: The truth has finally been discovered and Miguel has made a promise. Now he asks Héctor to make one too.





	For This Music is My Language

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first Coco fic, just a little idea I had since I love between-the-scenes stuff and I wanted more character interaction.
> 
> Please let me know if there are any problems with the Spanish in this!

Grouped together, the seven Riveras and one Xolo dog-turned- _alebrije_ took up about a third of the little gondola carrying them across the city. The other people on board paid them little attention, helped by the fact that Miguel had tugged his hood up again and kept his head lowered to hide his flesh-and-blood face. It wouldn’t do any good for some passerby to let it slip that the living kid from de la Cruz’s party was now coming to his sunrise performance.

_De la Cruz_. Miguel’s face twisted at the name and his skeletal fingers tightened over the red fabric of his hoodie. Just hours ago that name had filled him with _joy_ and with _longing_ , and- and _hope_. Hope for a musical future. But now it just left him with… what?

“Oh, I’m so nervous!” Tía Rosita tittered from her seat opposite Miguel. “I’ve never met a real celebrity before!”

Miguel froze, his heart skipping a beat in a flash of horror.

But Rosita continued with, “What’s Frida like?”

He relaxed. Oh. She was excited about _Frida_. Not… anyone else.

“Uh, she’s nice,” Miguel said with a slight shrug. He shifted in his spot between Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe, accidentally jostling them.

“But will she like us?” Rosita continued to fret. “What if she doesn’t help us? If we can’t get into the show, oh, _pobrecito_ Héctor…”

“ _¡Cálmete!_ ” Mamá Imelda snapped. She sat next to Tía Victoria with her hands folded in her lap. “If Frida Kahlo won’t help us, we’ll figure out something else. I am _not_ giving this up without a fight.” Her voice dropped to a dark mutter, her hands clutching at her dress. “And I want to meet that _cabrón_ who did this to us.”

Fire smoldered in her eyes, taking Miguel slightly aback.

“Frida’ll help us,” he assured. “Once we tell her what’s going on! I know she will.”

None of the family asked him how he was so sure, which he was grateful for, because he had no clue. Maybe it was just that she’d been so taken with Dante. And… she’d looked straight at Miguel and told him he had the spirit of an artist. Some sort of kinship had to have formed between them, right? She would help them. She had to help them.

Miguel allowed himself a smile. _The spirit of an artist…_

No one had ever told him that before. No one else had ever, _ever_ praised him for creativity, or been proud of his music—well, of course, except for…

He leaned forward in his seat and peered past the gondola’s occupants at the door leading to the little platform out back.

“Excuse me, _gracias_ ,” he said, and hopped up before anyone could call him back. He hurried to the door and slipped outside, closing it behind him. “ _Hola_ , Héctor.”

His newly-discovered great-great-grandfather looked over at him, blinking as if trying to rouse himself from a trance. A grin broke out on his face. “Heeeey, _chamaco!_ Did they call our stop?”

He sat propped lightly on the railing with his legs twined around the bars and his hat tucked under his arm to keep it from blowing away. Miguel almost made to climb up beside him but then thought better of it—he didn’t like his chances of keeping his balance while high in the air on a moving train. Instead he gripped the bars and tilted his head to let the wind catch his hood, whipping it back off his head and whooshing through his hair.

“No, we’ve got a little while,” he replied to Héctor’s question.

“Ah, that’s just as well. You know, you never get tired of this view.” Héctor looked down at the bright, sprawling Land of the Dead beneath them, a light smile on his face.

Miguel hesitated, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “But… don’t you want to come inside?” he asked finally, indicating the gondola’s door. “There’s plenty of room. I thought it would be packed but I think everyone who was going to the Sunrise Spectacular is already there. And if you came in you’d finally get the chance to talk to…!”

He trailed off. Maybe the idea of Mamá Imelda and Héctor sitting down and having a nice conversation was a little much to hope for right now.

Héctor let out a breath of laughter. “Any closed vehicle is going to be too crowded if me and Imelda are both inside it, Miguelito. I didn’t want to risk any broken windows from boots aimed at my head.”

Miguel dropped the subject. He propped his elbows on the railing next to Héctor, resting his chin on his hands and watching the little dots of souls walking around far below them. “How come you never told me?”

“Never told you what?” Héctor said. “There’s probably a lot of things I didn’t tell you, _chamaco_. Probably a lot of things that could’ve saved us a whole lot of—”

“How come you never told me your last name?” Miguel broke in.

Héctor cast a glance down at him. “How come you didn’t tell me _yours?_ ”

“Well… I dunno.” Miguel ducked his head in embarrassment. “I guess… I didn’t really want to be a Rivera anymore. But if you’d told me yours, we could’ve figured all this out a long time ago.”

“There are plenty of Riveras, Miguel,” Héctor said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s not exactly an uncommon family name.”

“But you still could’ve told me—”

“Eh, I don’t use that name much anymore anyway.” Now it was Héctor’s turn to shrug, looking out at the city again.

Down below, a few stragglers or early-risers weaved their way toward the amphitheater where the Spectacular was to be held. The thought of the show made his heart pound and he took in a breath. All they had to do was get there, sneak inside, find Ernesto, grab Héctor’s picture, get him back to the Land of the Living—

“I heard what happened at Ernesto’s party earlier,” Héctor said suddenly, startling Miguel out of his thoughts. “You got up and sang to the whole room? _Estupendo!_ That takes guts, kid.”

Shaking his head in mock outrage, Miguel asked, “Hey, what about the talent contest? That took guts, too.”

“Well sure, sure, but those people were _waiting_ for a performance. This time you got up and just burst out into song in front of a bunch of famous party-goers who were already listening to the, uh… the dubbed steps?”

Miguel buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Papá Héctor—”

Héctor looked at him, surprise lighting his face, but caught Miguel’s expression and spread his hands helplessly with a joking grin. “What? That was an honest attempt! How should I know what kids are listening to nowadays?”

It was one of those times when Miguel had to remind himself that this man who looked about twenty was actually over a hundred years old. What kind of a curse was that? His great-great-grandfather had existed in death five times as many years as he’d been alive.

“Well, did you hear what happened while I was singing?” Miguel asked.

“Ernesto smashed his own guitar to pieces in envy?”

“No, I fell in the pool.”

“So _that’s_ what happened to Cheech’s guitar.”

Miguel squirmed. “Ooh. I’m sorry, Héctor.”

After all they’d done to get that guitar, and all that it had meant to Chicharrón, it had ended up waterlogged at the bottom of a swimming pool.

He didn’t mention de la Cruz immediately diving into the pool to drag him out and save him from drowning. Or the famous musician’s apparent genuine concern when asking if he was all right. Or the way he’d seemed so excited at the prospect of having a living grandson. It all seemed too… _alien_. How could that person be the same man who’d poisoned Héctor and stolen his songs so long ago?

“Hey, it’s all right!” Héctor patted him on the shoulder. “ _¿No te preocupes por Chicharrón, de acuerdo?_ He woulda been happy we got as much use out of that guitar as we did, _amigo_.”

A smile twitched onto Miguel’s face. “Well, I guess we _did_ use it to play the best song ever.” Grinning wider, he bobbed back and forth, kept his eyes on Héctor, and sang. “ _The_ loco _that you make me, it is just_ un poco _crazy! The sense that you’re not making—_ ”

“ _The liberties you’re taking!_ ” Héctor, though subdued, took up the song at once, reaching out again to tousle Miguel’s dark hair. “ _Leaves my_ cabeza _shaking—_ ”

Miguel joined him again on the last line. “ _You are just_ un poco loco!”

Their voices rang loud in the chilly air, echoing across the city. When the notes faded, Héctor threw out his arms and let out such an enthusiastic _grito_ that he nearly fell forward off the railing, and a few people walking along nearby suspended bridges looked up at them in surprise. Miguel lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of his ragged jacket, pulling him back until he regained his balance. “Heh! ... _Gracias, chamaco._ ”

“ _De nada!_ ” Miguel laughed, but his smile faded and he glanced back at the door leading into the gondola. “Um… we should be getting there soon, shouldn’t we?” He turned back and caught Héctor also giving the door a lingering stare. However, the skeleton looked away quickly. “Are- are you nervous about doing this? Going back to see de la Cruz…?”

“Nervous?” Héctor’s head shot up. “Nervous about what? I’m a performer, Miguelito, I gave up nerves a long time ago.”

But his big smile was tight at the corners of his mouth and his eyes looked strained, and his hands had started fiddling with his hat.

He put his hat on his head and had to catch it when it threatened to blow away. “Why don’t we sing another round? _Vamos, vamos,_ you start again, and I’ll pick it up with air guitar.” He plucked a few imaginary cords with one hand.

“It would be better with a real one,” Miguel chuckled. He shifted his grip on the railing and averted his eyes from Héctor, who was still jamming out on thin air. “Hey… Héctor? Can you… promise me something?”

“Me? You want me to make a promise?” Héctor playfully nudged Miguel’s arm with his elbow. “You sure about that, _chamaco?_ ”

“Yeah- yeah.” Miguel rubbed at his arm as though the nudge had hurt, but of course it hadn’t. Unsure, he pulled his arm away and held onto the railing again. “It’s just, I was hoping that once all this was over, when you got your picture up and Coco remembered you again, you’d… you’d start writing songs again.”

He glanced up at Héctor, who’d frozen with his arms in guitar-holding position and almost looked like he’d been slapped.

“Please,” Miguel added, wincing a little.

A shudder ran up Héctor’s spine and he seemed to huddle in on himself, shaking his head and looking away. “I- I haven’t written songs in almost a century, _muchacho_.”

“So, you need to start up again, to get back in practice, right?” Miguel asked hopefully.

The skeleton looked at him again and Miguel’s eyes widened in shock at how… _fragile_ he suddenly appeared. He seemed as brittle as his yellowed bones had always suggested, as if a mere breath in his direction might cause him to shatter. But the feeling passed and a distant expression descended over his face instead.

“What makes you think I even want to write anymore?” he asked coolly.

Miguel stared up at him, dumbfounded. “ _What?_ But you loved it! ...Didn’t you?”

“ _Sí._ Loved. Past tense.” He pulled one foot onto the railing and folded his arms around it, hunching his shoulders and fixing his gaze on a brilliant purple _alebrije_ flying below.

“But just now, we had fun singing _Poco Loco!_ ” Miguel protested, edging closer. Why wouldn’t Héctor look at him? “And it was even better when we did it at the talent contest!”

“That’s _not_ the same thing.”

“But isn’t songwriting in your blood?”

This time Héctor did look at him, and Miguel backtracked. “Uh… I mean, in your bones?”

“ _No lo sé, chamaco_.” Héctor sighed. “I kind of lost my drive long ago. _Patético,_ no?”

“Um, _no_ ,” Miguel said. “Is it because _he_ stole all your songs?” _And killed you_ , he added silently.

Whether or not Héctor picked up on the unspoken addition, he didn’t respond to it and instead let out a hollow laugh. “That might have something to do with it, sure. Probably. But seriously, Miguel, sometimes these things just happen, you know? Nothing you can do about it.”

“But everyone loves your songs!” Miguel argued.

Héctor shrugged. “Eh. They love the way Mr. Eyebrows de la Cruz sings them, that’s all.”

Miguel ground his teeth, frustrated. How to make him _see?_

“But they’re still _your_ songs!” he said. “They love _your_ lyrics and _your_ melodies. De la Cruz’s success should’ve been your success. People love Remember Me because of the message, not because of how _he_ sings it!”

Héctor cringed. “Don’t mention that, kid, please. Ernesto turned that song into the _last_ thing it was meant to be.”

“Okay, sorry.” Miguel puffed his cheeks and blew out a huff of air. “I just… I hope you write more songs, that’s all.”

His great-great-grandfather leaned to the side, turning to Miguel with his fingers playing with the knot of his shabby necktie and that cold look back on his face as he scrutinized Miguel up and down.

“You know what? I see,” he said quietly. “All right, all right, yeah, I see it now. You still want your famous musician grandfather after all, don’t you? De la Cruz turned out to be the wrong guy and now you’re thinking I might be second-best, so long as I go back to scribbling out songs for anyone who throws money in my direction. That’s what he wanted from me, too—”

“ _No!_ ” Miguel cried. Héctor caught sight of the tears pricking the corners of his eyes and stopped talking at once, looking mortified. Miguel wiped his eyes angrily. What was wrong with him? Why did he have to keep crying tonight? “No, no, _no!_ ”

“M- Miguelito, _mijo_ , I’m sorry!” Héctor said desperately, all but falling onto the platform from the railing in his scramble to reach out comfortingly to Miguel. He almost put a hand on his shoulder but pulled back uncertainly. “That was—I didn’t mean—I don’t know what came over me—”

“You’ve- you’ve _got_ to write songs, Héctor. It’s who you are, isn’t it?” Miguel said. “I love music ‘cause of you, but all my life I’ve never been able to play it for my family or anyone else except Dante, and _you_ haven’t played for… what, a hundred years? Until tonight. Isn’t that… isn’t it eating you up inside? Like you could just explode?”

“I…” Héctor fell back against the wall of the gondola, loosely clutching his left arm with his right. “Well… I can’t say I don’t miss it.” He sighed took on a wistful expression. “When you get the right inspiration and the words just flow out of you… Hah, usually still needing a lot of editing, which is where having a partner can come in handy. Nothing better than having a separate pair of ears to test things out on, especially someone who isn’t shy about letting you know which parts they hate. But playing it out loud for an audience for the first time, seeing their reaction, _hearing_ their reaction… _le mejor sensación del mundo._ But that was a lifetime ago.”

“You could write songs for yourself,” Miguel said. “Or for Mamá Coco. Or even for Mamá Imelda.” He paused, considering. “...If she hasn’t confiscated your writing hand.”

That made Héctor laugh. “She would do it! I wouldn’t put that past her. I’d have to come knocking left-handed at her door to ask for my hand back just so I could eat dinner. And she’d tell me I should just eat my soup with my feet.”

Miguel laughed too, some of the tension easing out of his frame. “There, see? A whole new verse for _Poco Loco!_ ”

“Oh, no, nononono.” Héctor waved him off. “No messing with old songs. That was _his_ job. If I started writing again, I’d make up new ones.” He rifled in the pockets of his tattered jacket and frowned. “I’d need a new notebook for that. Not to mention a new guitar, and those aren’t exactly easy to come by.”

Miguel smiled. “Me too—” He broke off.

_Oh_. The conditions. No more music, at all.

When we went back home there’d be no more singing. No more guitar. No more drumming on tables, or blowing into empty bottles, or even whistling. No more long hours tucked away in his little hideout, learning to play guitar from old de la Cruz movies (not that he’d do that anymore anyway, given what he knew now—in fact, he was itching to get home and finish what his family had started in tearing down that shrine for good).

But no music, _ever?_ How could he live with that hanging over his head? What if he so much as hummed a little and he ended up trapped as a skeleton forever? What if—?

Someone tapped his shoulder. “Hey, hey, you okay, kid?”

Héctor sounded concerned. Miguel leaned into the touch slightly, his worried thoughts bubbling to the surface and spilling out of his mouth. “How can I live without any music? What- what if I mess up? What if I get cursed again? What if we can’t get your photo in time, and—?”

“Shhhh, shhhhh, _chamaco._ ” Héctor opened his arms for a hug, which Miguel accepted, burying his face in the skeleton’s jacket. “It’s all right. What did I tell you before? It’ll be okay. Everything’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. I hope so, Héctor.”

They were both shaking slightly. They clung to each other as tightly as they had in the cenote, when Miguel had been sure that Héctor would be the last family member he would ever see again, alive or dead. The memory made him shudder.

_Gracias a dios_ for Dante. And for Pepita. And Mamá Imelda.

Their hold loosened and Héctor broke away first. “You know, _chamaco_ …” He hesitated. Slowly, slowly, he reached into his pocket again and drew out a marigold petal—part of the plan that Miguel had worked out with the rest of the family. “I could- I could send you back right now. No conditions. You could… play music as much as you wanted.”

Miguel jerked backwards. “But your photo!” he gasped.

Héctor gave him a smile that was probably meant to be nonchalant but looked more like he was trying to grin through an eye surgery. “ _Ay._ It’s only a picture, _mijo_.”

“No, that’s not fair!” Miguel insisted. “I’m not going back without your photo. You deserve to be on our _ofrenda_ , right up at the top with Mamá Imelda. I’ll just find something else I like to do. Maybe I’ll even be really, really good at making shoes.” He looked down, a lump in his throat.

No disrespect to Mamá Imelda and her chosen profession, but at the moment, shoemaking seemed like the worst thing he could possibly do with his life.

But his family needed him. And family had to come first.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, the gondola door burst open and Mamá Imelda stood framed in the doorway. “Miguel, you’ve been out here a long time. We’re almost—”

Her eyes fell on the petal still clutched in Héctor’s hand, then moved to Héctor’s sheepish face. “ _What_. Are you doing.”

Héctor tucked the petal back into his pocket, conjuring up a smile. “Just making sure I still had it with me, _mi amor!_ ”

A pained breath hissed through Imelda’s teeth. “Don’t… call me that,” she said. “Please, Héctor. Not now, not ye—” She cut herself off and made a sound as if clearing her throat.

Miguel, however, brightened. Not what? Not _yet?_ He glanced over at Héctor, who was staring at Imelda with the beginnings of a wild hope in his eyes. He must have caught the slip too.

Imelda frowned at the two of them in turn, arms stiff by her sides and eyes aflame once more as though daring them to comment on what she’d nearly said. “We’ve almost reached our stop. I suggest you come inside. _Both_ of you.”

“ _Sí, señora!_ ” Héctor practically sang, giving Imelda a deep bow and an elegant sweep of his tattered straw hat before twirling it back onto his head. “Coming right in. _Vamonos, chamaco!_ ”

When they entered the gondola, the Riveras were the only passengers still on board. The conversation died until they were left with silence, each family member carefully looking anywhere but at Héctor. He slipped into a seat at the back of the car and watched the others apprehensively. Miguel sat down next to him. 

Slowly the talk started up again, people occasionally sneaking a curious glance over at the two of them.

“I barely even recognize any of them,” Héctor muttered for only Miguel to hear, his voice full longing. Miguel wasn’t sure if he was even _meant_ to hear that. “My own family. They’re all… strangers. Except Imelda’s brothers, but they were much younger then. I never knew the others in life and I’ve hardly ever seen them in death.”

Miguel took in his family. He was in a similar boat to Héctor, he realized. He’d never met any of them before today either. But unlike his great-great-grandfather, he’d been looking at their photos and hearing their stories all his life.

Feeling determined, he scooted closer to Héctor and quietly introduced him to his family. “Papá Julio,” he said, pointing out his great-grandfather with the large mustache and the cowboy hat. “He was Mamá Coco’s husband.”

Héctor stared at the man, wide-eyed.

“Tía Rosita—she’s Papá Julio’s sister,” Miguel continued. “And Tía Victoria is Mamá Coco’s daughter. Mamá Elena is my Abuelita, Tía Victoria’s sister. She’s still alive.”

His mind wandered again. Was Abuelita missing him? Was she sorry about smashing his guitar? Did she know he hadn’t meant to disappear? When he got back home, would he be in so much trouble that she’d never make tamales for him again?

Miguel shook the thoughts from his head.

“This is… a lot of Riveras,” Héctor noted. “Maybe I can convince everyone to wear name tags?”

“Not likely,” Victoria spoke up. “You’ll have to learn our names like the proper grandfather you’re supposed to be.”

Héctor grinned lopsidedly at her, pulling his suspender straps. “That’s me, the proper grandfather. Father of one, grandfather to... “ He paused. “...How many, again?”

“Miguel hasn’t even mentioned all our relatives in the living world!” Rosita said. “I can’t wait for you to meet Abel, and Rosa, and the other children!”

“Luisa has another one on the way,” Tío Felipe put in.

“Yeah, I’m going to be _un hermano_ soon!” Miguel said, his heart soaring at the reminder.

Tío Óscar leaned forward, spreading his arms. “We’ll introduce you to the whole family!”

“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Imelda said, arms crossed.

“And Coco!” Rosita said. “You’ll get to see Coco!”

“How _is_ Coco?” Héctor blurted.

The gondola went quiet.

Héctor seemed unsure of what to do with his hands, wringing them before clasping them together before letting go again and clenching them at his sides. “My- my Coco. How is she?”

Everyone looked at Miguel.

He swallowed hard. Of course, being the only living person here, he’d probably know best.

“She’s fine,” he said. With an uneasy glance at Héctor, he added, “She- she doesn’t remember stuff that well anymore… But she’s fine. And she’s happy. She loves her family and we all love her.”

Héctor nodded for him to continue, his expression frozen. Miguel realized that the entire family had their heads inclined toward him, hanging onto his every word.

“Um…” Miguel flicked his gaze between Héctor and the rest of the family, heart thumping in his chest. “She doesn’t talk much anymore, but she’s a really good listener. I tell her everything! And Abuelita takes really good care of her, she braids her hair every morning.”

“And she still remembers me,” Héctor murmured, looking down at his hands. “She still remembers me just the tiniest bit after ninety-five years. My brave, brave _angelita_.”

_She remembers you. She begged for you to come home_. The thought came to him, but Miguel couldn’t say that. Not now.

“She still loves your songs. And she remembers you more than she remembers any of us,” he said quietly, instead. Héctor blinked and his eyes brimmed with tears.

“My songs,” he whispered.

An announcement came over the gondola speakers, making everyone jump. “ _Next stop, the Sunrise Spectacular amphitheater._ Por favor _, purchase your tickets several months in advance!_ ”

“A little late for that,” Tía Victoria said, raising a brow.

Everyone gathered themselves and stood, talking softly and getting ready to head out.

“Maybe I will start writing songs again,” Héctor said as he and Miguel made their way to the front. “For the time that I have left. For Coco. For when she gets here. She deserves to have something from her father, even if I end up—” He stopped.

“You can sing them to her yourself in the Land of the Living,” Miguel said, his eyes shining. “I won’t let her forget you. I _promise_.”

Héctor nodded. He didn’t look like he trusted himself to speak.

The gondola doors open and Imelda, closest to the front, faced the rest of the family before she led them outside. Miguel could hear music from the show all the way over here.

“This is it, everyone,” Imelda said. “We’re here.

“Now, let’s send our lost ones home.”


End file.
